XVI

Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were,

      Or they dead leaves; since her delight is flown,

      For whom should she have waked the sullen year?

      To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear

      Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both

      Thou, Adonais: wan they stand and sere

      Amid the faint companions of their youth,

With dew all turned to tears; odour, to sighing ruth.